


Thorns

by coldwarqueer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic Characters, Asexual Character, M/M, Onesided Romance, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4652178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldwarqueer/pseuds/coldwarqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have thorns,” he goes on, “And crooked roots. But very few of us don’t.”</p><p>//</p><p>a romantic relationship featuring two aromantics</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> felix is aromantic in this and locus is grey-aro/demisexual
> 
> there's one line of porn. be warned.

He brings you flowers as a courting gift.

It’s the first time he’s approached you, though you have seen him before, in whatever places people often go when they don’t have purpose. He offers you a bouquet of six roses, expertly cut short and not too showy, not too big. You think he must have thought long on the design.

The roses are white, with pink edges and red veins, and you hold the bouquet with both hands in utter amusement that they have even been handed to you.

“Well, they’re nice to look at,” you say, tempted to flirt with the man before you. He is good looking, though you’re unsure if you’re in the particular mood to string someone along. “But why?”

He tucks a wayward strand of black hair behind his ear as he meets your gaze. His eyes are dark and soulful. “Isn’t this what people do?”

“Yes,” you suppose, “I guess it is.”

* * *

Locus often brings you flowers.

You see him on weekends, because that is when he doesn’t have school. He tells you that he knows you work at the local coffee shop, and he tells you his favorite coffee; Americano.

You aren’t sure if you’re dating, but he drives you around and takes you to dinner often. He spends money on you when you didn’t ask (and oh, how you love to ask), and he especially loves surprising you with new bouquets.

He must be rich, you think, for him to continue buying you all these things you didn’t need; not to mean you don’t want them. “How do you buy all these flowers?”

Locus shrugs, and hands off the bouquet of lilies. “I live above a noisy florist and his annoyingly British husband.”

A fair reason.

“Could I join you?” he asks, as he pulls up in front of your apartment building. Instead of saying yes, you direct him where to park.

The first night you spend together, though mostly clothed, you enjoy. In the morning you make him his favorite coffee, and he tucks one of the lilies from the day before into your hair.

* * *

The sex doesn’t happen.

It’s not something you and Locus have conversely decided, but he seems to have grasped it’s a big deal for you. You have never been so close to someone who you haven’t touched intimately, whether you believed it to be intimate or not. And you and Locus are definitely close, you think; have definitely become close.

“We don’t have to,” Locus says, while you sit on the couch of your apartment, watching television, “And I don’t particularly want to.”

“But what if I do?” you ask him. Despite your words, you aren’t entirely sure if you care. Sex is important to you, has always been important, will always be important. But you’re unsure if your relationship with Locus _needs_ sex.

He responds by muting the television, and giving you his undivided attention. “Then what would you have me do for you?”

His lips around your cock as you watch the news is the closest you’ve felt to someone in years, but you can't help but feel it's just a small piece of the puzzle.

* * *

You call Locus your partner, because you’re unsure of what else to call him. Not a boyfriend, certainly, because you have never had a boyfriend, and you never intend to have one. Locus is a reliable constant in your life. Locus deserves more than to be called a boyfriend.

“Flowers gave me these,” Locus says, unpacking groceries from the most recent trip. He slides a small plastic bag tied off at the handles across the counter to you. “He told me I should cultivate my own romance.”

The way Locus says the word romance has you both laughing about it, as if it is such a funny thing that anyone would think you are both “together.”

You open the bag and there are seeds inside. Foxglove, lilies, orchids, roses, numerous others. You like many of these flowers, you realize, and would enjoy seeing them “cultivated” whether part of romance or not (and preferably not). “Don’t you think it would be nice to have a garden?”

“Do you think it would be nice?” Locus asks, and you smile, knowing your opinion weighs heavily on the matter.

“I like when you bring me flowers,” you tell him, “Especially the poisonous ones.”

“I like roses,” Locus says. You’re not sure what to do with that information.

“Why?”

“They have thorns.” Locus glances to the window, where the most recent bouquet of roses has begun to wilt in its vase. “They’re varied, and every one is beautiful. They’re a lot like people.”

“I thought you didn’t like people,” you say, wondering where this diatribe could be going.

“I don’t like a lot of roses, either,” Locus says, “Only the ones I bring home.”

You don’t ask him to elaborate.

* * *

Locus spends most of his days digging up fresh dirt in the garden he has decided to plant. You wouldn’t mind so much, if it didn’t take away valuable attention that would be much better spent on you.

The garden is slow to grow, and even slower to let Locus leave it every day.

“The roots are tender,” he tells you, like he is already an expert on botany, “I don’t want them to grow crooked.”

“Why does it matter?”

“A healthy upbringing is what lengthens the life of the bloom,” Locus says.

“That’s probably true for more things than just plants,” you muse. He doesn’t reply. You are still jealous of the garden.

* * *

In time, the garden blooms.

There are flowers all at different times of the year. You and Locus have lived together for longer than you care to count. You’d rather spend it counting money, you think.

Locus tends the garden every day after work, and you sit together after dinner. You watch television and talk of things that interest you. You have the same conversations over and over, and they still sound new.

Locus doesn’t bring you flowers anymore.

* * *

You feel your partnership go stagnant, as Locus settles into a routine. He cares for the garden and comes inside only when it's dark, and you often settle in front of your television that is far too big for the room, and you sit in silence until he falls asleep.

You ask him, your only confrontation, "Why do you never bring me flowers anymore?"

Locus turns to you with a look that you think might be hurt, and you see him shift in his seat.

His black eyes are soft when he says, "Because I built you a garden."

You don't ask for flowers anymore.

* * *

“I think I might love you,” Locus tells you as you’re watching television one night. He doesn’t look at you, his attention solely on the screen. “But I think you might know that.”

“I didn’t,” you answer truthfully. You aren’t surprised to find out, but you won’t tell him a lie and say you knew. “I don’t love you back.”

“That’s alright.” Locus finally turns his head to look you in the eye. You see something soft in his gaze, like he is waiting for you to open up to him. “But do you care?”

“I do.” You don’t elaborate. You’re not sure you can. All you know is that Locus loves you, and you aren’t having thoughts of running from it. You admit to him, “I think I might like that you love me.”

“I like that much better than a lot of other answers.” Locus turns back to the television with that, and you finish watching the news.

“Am I like the roses?” you finally ask. The thought had come to you out of the blue, and your curiosity gets the better of you.

“Yes.” Locus’ dark eyes are swallowing your words. “You’re beautiful, Felix. You’re unique,” he says, “Like something I would have to find in the wild. I couldn’t clip you, and give you away- it would cheapen the beauty."

"Are you saying I'm perfect?"

“You have thorns,” he goes on, “And crooked roots. But very few of us don’t.”

“So I’m just like everyone else,” you insist, teasing him. The romantic comparison is sweet, no doubt, but you ache to pick it apart.

“There are roses without thorns,” Locus tells you, reaching over to take your hand. “But they wilt without defenses.”

“But they’re what people want.”

“They’re an ideal,” he says, “Not a reality.”

You let him have his victory, but you resolve yourself not to make coffee tomorrow morning out of spite.

* * *

“I love you,” Locus admits. You look up from your breakfast and don’t smile. He rests a hand on yours, and nods. “It’s alright not to say it back. But I think you should know. I love you. I love your thorns, and your crooked roots.”

“Even my wilting petals?” you tease, cracking a smile.

“Wilting doesn’t mean the end,” Locus says. He squeezes your hand. “Flowers bloom many times. I have no doubt you’ll bloom again.”

 


End file.
